


Nothing More Shall I Want

by cosmotronic



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Angst, F/F, Light Dom/sub, Self-Hatred, Service Top, Sex Toys, Size Kink, Smut, Strap-Ons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-02
Updated: 2016-12-02
Packaged: 2018-09-03 19:34:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8727532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmotronic/pseuds/cosmotronic
Summary: She thinks it's a broken thing that they have, and yet she knows it's all they ever wanted.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Minor **warnings** for self-loathing, for unhealthy sexual dynamics (sort of) and for playing spot the bible quote.
> 
> Comments, feedback always welcome.

I think I will hurt her; the toy is so much bigger than anything we’ve used before. Toy. The _cock_ is longer than what I’ve worn for her when she begs, thicker than what I’d ever use on myself those rare times when she wants to watch. She's smaller than I am and I can't imagine how she can take this without pain.

I wrap my hand around the girth and sigh a fortifying sigh. I can't resist her quiet request tonight, emotions clamped and controlled but with an overlay of need she doesn't hide from me. It's not a demand; she never _demands_ anything. I could walk out of this bathroom right now and gather my lover into my arms, take her softly and gently with lips and fingertips and I think she would allow it. But I don't do it, I never do it, because that's not what she wants.

I slip the toy between my legs, settling the base against my clit. The dull throb and ache of anticipation spread through me immediately and I give the length a few experimental strokes. I'll probably never get used to the tactile feedback but it does feel good, transmitting sensations from the shaft right to my core. I pull my fatigue pants back up over my behind, over the harness, cock peeking through the open fly. It's my kink really, having sex with our clothes on. I especially love to fuck her in uniform. She tells me she loves it too. I'm not sure if that's the truth or if she just doesn't like me seeing her scars.

I was shocked the first time I saw her reconstructed body. Scared and sickened by the ruination of that precious form. She had scars before of course, trophies of battle and proofs of survival and I always found them sexy, stirring. But these marks are different, not earned. Just gaps in the outer dermis, surgical and blunt, that make her look unfinished and as though she's been stitched together by a creator who's only seen a human being in pictures. They glow red sometimes, in anger or passion, like there's a raging furnace within her, but I don't tell her what I have seen. I tell her instead that she is beautiful – and despite it all, she is beautiful – but still she stiffens when I caress her shredded back, still she dies a little when I kiss the mess of her abdomen. She could get the wounds healed – it would be easy – but they'd still be there, taunting her from beneath perfect skin.

I know that she hates herself sometimes. When the situation goes to hell and it all weighs down and everyone turns to her and I can tell she just wants to scream at them, to make them see she's just like them, she's only one woman, a murderer and a coward and no fucking better than any of them. It has always been like this, even before. She's a hero but hates that she can't save everyone. She's a survivor but hates that her body won't allow death. She's a killer but hates that the universe doesn't punish her. She's tough and brave and ruthless and reckless and brutal and loyal and so fucking broken I could scream at the injustice.

I thought I hated her once, too. I hated that she had left us, me. I hated that Cerberus rebuilt her and used her. I hated that she came to Horizon and tried to pull me from my purgatory. I hated that she could still turn my legs to water with a look and set my chest to bursting with a sound. I hated, that for all the damn poetry I quoted, for all the words I borrowed and stole because I could not find my own, that I couldn’t say a single thing she deserved to hear.

But despite the hateful things that orbit her and exert their pull on her, I could never truly hate her. Her crushing gravity draws me to her, enables me to throw the hateful things from her path and we spin together in a clockwork dance, two bodies tidally locked as she drags me to her pace and no other. She is not possessive, has never staked a claim but she's owned me since the first time. Since she defied them all and saved them all, since a beaten-down warrior let me take her and raise her up and love her.

I think I helped then, in some small way, and I want to help her again. I can't share the burden or shoulder the blame. I can never wear her tarnished crown, her burnt and blackened halo, it weighs too much. It would crush me, so I do what little else I can with useless words and primal actions. It's why I'm here, staring at myself in an overly illuminated bathroom mirror, wearing a ridiculous cock that feels so wrong and so fucking good, ready to give her what she wants.

When I emerge from the bathroom I cannot help but groan with desire and dismay at what I see. She's still wearing her unbuttoned uniform jacket but otherwise she is nude. She's on all fours on the bed, presenting. Her rear is raised and her legs are slightly apart, giving me enticing glimpses of her sex in shadow. It's submissive and begging and not at all like the goliath she has to be for all the rest of them. I find the view uncomfortable, shameful, arousing. Her display of subservience is turning me on and she must know it; she must know how the desire twists my gut and how the wet gathers between my legs. She knows, but I know it’s not for me.

I move close, sliding my palm across the smooth skin of her behind. She shudders a little, a tiny shiver and I know she is remembering another night, so many years ago, when she had begged me to punish her for murdering a good man. I had hit her once and she had hissed, but the grief was too raw and I had pushed her down and ridden the back of her thigh until I came. I never hit her again and she never asked. It’s not our way, not what she really wants.

I ease my hand down between her legs and she spreads a little more, pushing down into the touch. I brush my fingers over her, grazing her clit, her folds, seeking the heat of her entrance. There's a hint of moisture there, just enough to indicate the first spikes of arousal but she's not ready. I bend down, touching my tongue to her, dipping inside her slightly, encouraging more wetness from within. I love this, the taste of her. She rocks back into me. It's probably involuntary and I think that maybe I can make her come like this, that maybe it will be enough.

But it's not enough and her voice is thick and rough, “Come on, you stud. Fuck me. Fuck me with that big cock.”

It's forced, I can tell. She enjoys calling me stud and hunk and sometimes even _marine_ , and I'll admit to getting a little thrill out of it, but the dirty talk isn't really her thing.

“Please.”

Pleading, a more familiar tactic. She's pushing my buttons, measuring my resolve. I pull my mouth away from her centre, dragging a kiss across the curve of her behind, worrying her flesh with a scrape of teeth. Her hot flesh burns my lips as I murmur against her, “Sure, babe. Let me get some lube.”

“I don't need it.”

Like _hell_. I keep my voice a firm whisper, “Yes, you do.”

“Ash...”

It's almost a warning, thrown over her shoulder. Whatever resolve I ever had could have been blown away with a breath; she's so needy and there's no use delaying my acquiescence. But I have to be sure about one thing.

“I don't want to hurt you.”

She turns back away and hangs her head and I can hear the quiet shame in the lie, “You won't.”

It's killing me and exciting me and I want her and I move back close, positioning myself to slide in, slowly. She groans and it can’t be pleasure but she moves her hips back to meet mine. I watch entranced as the thick, flared tip of the cock disappears between those beautiful pink folds. The tightness is hot and crushingly soft and I feel my body reacting, desire turning molten in my core.

After only a few centimetres she suddenly freezes, locking her arms, thighs trembling. I pause and the small part of me that isn't yet captivated by her response says I should be concerned, but I don't withdraw.

“Do you want me to stop?”

It's nonsense and she shakes her head _no_ , mouth hanging open, breath hiccuping in small gasps and I know what is happening. It's small, barely a tremor but this strong, unyielding sentinel is coming undone just from the press of me inside her, the painful, dangerous stretch. It's a purely physical fix, there's no connection, no emotive display at all and it makes me burn how fucking badly she wants this.

There's more slick now, making the slide easier and I press on until most of the shaft is buried deep. I pause again and lean my body forward, angling against her slim frame. She's not frail, she will never break beneath me but still I hesitate. She's asked me to do this but still I wait for her word. It's not just because the sounds of her pleas and implorations never fail to send red hot pleasure rushing through my body; right now I just want her to tell me she wants it.

“Do it.”

I do. I withdraw almost entirely, until only the tip of the cock remains buried, then slide back in. Over and over I move my hips slowly, full thrusts filling her to her limit with each stroke. Her breath hitches as the wide cock head catches on the ring of her entrance and she twitches when I am pressed fully within her again and again and again, but her reactions are small, muted. Passing minutes drag on in a fog of aimless pleasure and she grunts after a while, curving her back a little more, angling her hips a little higher. I knows she wants to be taken harder, faster. I know she wants me to be rough, to force the cock deep and fuck her until she can't feel anything else, until she can't think.

And I want to fuck her like she wants. I want to drive into her, panting and rutting my way to completion. I want to pound her until she grates out _you fucking stud_ through gritted teeth and spills her essence about me. I want to use her like she wants and stretch her open and hurt her and give her the scalpel-sharp redemption she wants.

I want to do all those things, but I've lingered in the thought too long and now I have a doubt. I bite back a moan and restrain the urgent snap of my hips and not for the first time I consider the alternative, picking away at our inexpertly stitched bond, threatening to unravel whatever this is that we have. It can't be wrong to want my lover to really feel this, to respond to something other than animal stimulation and the sharp pains that tell her she is alive. To take pleasure in a moment without it being tempered with punishment. To join me in swiping away the hateful things and allow herself comfort and love. My love. I want her to want me.

I mete out my lust in tortured increments. The stretch must still be incredible for her and I can feel the clutch, the drag of her inner walls against the cock. Every contour is a delicious razor, every ridge a blissful spur. She comes again, body silently quaking, tightness fluttering around me. Her arms give way and I wrap a hand under her body, easily holding her narrow hips up to meet my thrusts. She's boneless, barely responsive and I'm so hot for her like this, I'm burning for her but it feels wrong. It feels so fucking wrong, so I stop.

She whimpers when I pull out, pushing back against nothing. I nudge at her, turn her over on the bed until she is sprawled out before me.

She is beautiful, flushed and pliant. Her uniform jacket is splayed open, exposing her torso to the air, to my starving gaze. She's too thin, I can see. My hands are loose on her flanks, resting just above the jut of her hip bones, thumbs brushing the flat plains of her abdomen. Stitching the edges of her scars, soothing the red glow of her soul. My fingertips trail upwards, over stark ribs to her breasts. Her nipples are hard, cruel peaks and she doesn't arch into my touch as I caress her, squeezing and tugging.

Suddenly desperate to feel her body against mine, I break away to pull my shirt over my head, tearing the material in my haste until the barrier is removed from my skin. I lower myself carefully on top of her, bring our faces close and kiss her tenderly with an almost chaste press of my lips to her closed mouth. She turns her face a fraction, breaking the contact almost immediately.

She questions me, nearly petulant, “What are you doing?”

“I want to see you.”

“Why?”

My heart breaks a little at the question. Doesn't she know? I touch her cheek, turn her face back to mine. We are so close, foreheads together, breathing each other's air. It should be wonderful and I want to show her.

“I want to make love to you.”

“Ashley.”

I'm not sure if the whisper is a question or a plea or an admonishment, so I respond the only way I know how.

“I love you.”

She doesn't reply but opens her legs wider, an invitation I want to believe more than the passivity she paints across her face. I shift my hips, moving myself into position and push back inside her and oh fuck, it's so much better like this. I feel so much closer to her. I pump into her in short, shallow, rocking thrusts angled to stroke the base across her clit, to press the shaft perfectly inside her. She hooks one thigh over my hip, drawing me deeper. It should seem encouraging, a freely given signal of climbing arousal, but there's something mechanical about the motion and I know it's just a hind-brain reaction to the stimulus.

The pace remains slow but it's no longer a tease, no longer a torment to be endured. I hardly feel the compulsion to be forceful any more and I sense her tension easing under me. She seeks my eyes, wide black pools and haunted red capturing me with a look like she always does. She's hardly in there but I can hear a tiny moan and I know why as my heavy muscles press her into the bed, dominating her with my weight and I think with a flash of sick heat that maybe what I want is always what she wants after all, even when what she wants isn't what we thought. She is opening up to me, I think, wet and willing, urging me on with her body and I rock into her a little harder.

Our skin is scorching and sweat sticks my torso to hers, pressing our breasts together. Through smothering flesh I can feel two heartbeats keeping irregular time, never in sync, never beating as one. Then, without presage, a single blissful moment stretches out as our chests hammer in perfect counterpoint. We are floating alone in a vastness, the only two people in the galaxy, all that matters. All of the ages pass in the thump of a heartbeat, all the laws of space and time negated and cast aside as the universe transitions inexorably towards it's end. Incalculable aeons of nothingness pass us by until it's just me and her and then the moment is gone and although my forearms are resting either side of her head, our faces almost touching and bodies moulded together, I have never felt so far from her.

Her nails are ten probing lances on my shoulders, gouging my back, sharp little knives cutting through nebulous fogs of unreality. The moment is gone, yes, but she's surging under me, I'm sure, and I work my hips a little faster.

She's still so fucking tight and the cock is doing it's job and I’m rising far more quickly than I'd hoped, the friction and feedback too much. She knows I'm close, she can tell and she's whispering into the hot sliver of air between us, whispering hoarse and needy, whispering what she wants and what I want to hear.

“That's it, sexy. Come for me. Yes. Fuck. Come for me.”

She pushes her mouth hard against mine, closed lipped and bruising and I am left defenceless by her kiss, unexpected and welcome. I want to taste desperation but I think it might be resignation.

I'm climbing so high and my hold is so precarious. I pull my lips away, allow myself the space to look at her face again, searching for a connection in those dull pits. I've never been able to do this with anyone else, to stare deep into a lover's eyes while I'm flying apart but she makes it easy. She never breaks contact, never seems to blink and I fall into that unwavering gaze, die gasping in that sea of black arousal and red shame. And then I am coming and I hope it's for her but I know it's for me.

I collapse against her and cry out. Not her name – some promises are kept no matter what – but _baby_ and _love you_ and I feel myself pulsing and spilling and although I know it's just sensory feedback from the cock it's as if I am coming inside her, drenching those tight velvet walls, filling her, claiming her.

She hasn't come again. I thought that maybe she would give herself to me, like every time I tell myself it could be this time, but it isn't enough, it's never enough like this. We don't make love. It's not wonderful. I can't show her. I'm selfish and pathetic and I've disappointed her. I never wanted to give her what she wanted; I wanted to give her beauty and love and forever but she does not want those things and neither should I.

I lie against her, paralysed by neurones and neurosis until finally, after far too long, I am able to push myself up on my hands and look down at her. My body is still unsteady and trembling a little from my orgasm, but I think my face is reverent and gentle. Apologetic, though I know she does not blame me. Hesitant, though I know she will not belittle my hope.

She just stares at me. There's a dangerous, wet sparkle over her eyes, blurring the red hint beneath. No, please. I don't want her to cry. I should have just fucked her like she wanted, like I wanted. It's not wrong, it's what we have and it's always been enough. I can remember another night not so different from this one, just one time when I had bent her over a desk and I had fucked her until she passed out, soaked and sore and sated. It had felt so good and after she came around she had murmured something like _I love you_ and I know she meant it and she never cried, so why did I doubt tonight?

Her voice breaks into my worries, soft now, cautious, “Are you alright?”

With the same nauseating lurch as an uncontrolled freefall, I realise the tears are mine and I crumple. I fold into the crook of her neck and into the cage of her legs, that ridiculous cock still pushed up inside her, and I cry.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

I repeat it like a benediction, muffled by skin and sobs. Her hands smooth across my back and tangle in my hair. Lips press against my ear and she forgives me and restores me and it's okay. Tomorrow will be a new day. She will face it with a grin and a gun and I'll be right there whenever she needs me, to give her whatever she wants, for she is my Shepard and I shall want for nothing else.

**Author's Note:**

> Shit, I'm not even sure what this is.
> 
> Don't expect first-person from me often. It's too uncomfortable and weird.


End file.
